A long time ago I found myself dating this girl outside of my tribe. She was a square. She was nice enough, and she was having sex with me so, even though I knew it was futile, I stayed in longer than I should have. She would have dinner parties, and I hated them. I hated her friends, I hated the food they ate, I hated the music they listened to, and I hated the shit they talked about. At one of these parties I had too much to drink, and found myself talking with a smug marina douchewand named Connor or Mason. I can't recall what the discussion was about, but before I knew it, I had bitch-slapped him hard. The look on his face was priceless, but when I saw the expression on my date I knew it was over whether I wanted it to be or not. With a rush of adrenaline, I grabbed a bottle of Glenfiddich, stuffed it into my bag, and headed out the door, never seeing her again. I got home and told my housemates what had happened. I pulled out the bottle and we drank it while playing dominoes and listening to Tank's Filth Hound of Hades. I had somewhat of an epiphany at that moment. I knew that I was exactly where I belonged. This album is the workaday everyman, the young joskin with a poorly rendered Grim Reaper tattoo who finds himself up against the stodgy status quo, buttondown dickbag squares and guys named Connor or Mason at a fucking dinner party. Why was I at a fucking dinner party?